Escape from Baghdad!

By Saad Z Hossain

Two down on their luck black-marketeers, Dagr and Kinza, have inherited a very important prisoner: the former star torturer of Saddam’s recently collapsed Ba’athist regime, Captain Hamid, who promises them untold riches if they smuggle him to Mosul. With the heat on, they enlist the help of Private Hoffman, their partner in crime and a U.S. Marine, who undertakes to help them escape the authorities.

But getting out of Baghdad is no easy task. The city is crawling with traps and alive with 5000 years of history. Soon they are embroiled in the search for a serial killer and the mysteries of an ancient watch that doesn’t tell time. Hounded by religious fanatics, crazed librarians, alchemists, special elements of the former Iraqi secret service, not to mention the United States army, the odd foursome must survive long enough to discover the truth. And in this place where life is constantly under siege the truth may be, quite simply, the secret to eternal life.

With a satiric eye firmly cast on the absurdity of human violence, Escape from Baghdad features more than a few shades of Heller’s Catch-22 and David O'Russell’s Three Kings while doing something all-together shocking: giving voice, ribald humor, and some epic firepower to people most often referred to as collateral damage.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Unnamed Press
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939419323

Saad Z Hossain

Saad Z Hossain writes in a niche genre of fantasy, science fiction and black comedy with an action-adventure twist. He is the author of Escape from Baghdad! and Djinn City. He was published in the anthologies The Apex Book of World SF: Volume 4 and The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories. He lives and works in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

Book preview

1: SOUTH GHAZALIYA

WE SHOULD KILL HIM, KINZA SAID. BUT NOTHING TOO ORTHODOX.

Silence then. A kind of scathing, derisive, stifling silence expanding to fill the room, crowding out the detritus of previous conversations, leaving two blackmarketeers drinking in a darkened space, in the back of a battered house, with nothing much to say. The room was dark because they had used foil paper to blacken the windows. The lights were off because outside, the JAM militia, known as the Mahdi Army, had just torn through 13th Street, which was rare, because 13th Street in Ghazaliya was a dead-end nothing suburban thoroughfare.

Out of principle alone, it should be done, Kinza sipped his Jack Daniels, which he had bartered from the US Marine Ted Hoffman for a piece of Chemical Ali’s skull. Not because I hate this man. It is nothing personal for me. I am merely an agent of fate, like the Count of Monte Cristo.

Kinza’s partner Dagr received this comment without surprise or apparent concern. Though he had once been a professor of economics, it turned out the wartime shift in profession had been ridiculously easy for him.

The JAM normally preferred 14th Street, as it allowed them access to the northern Shi’a neighborhood of Shulla, but in this excursion they had run into the South Ghazaliya Defense Brigade, sworn to defend South Ghazaliya. The JAM often won these encounters, but recently their firebrand Shi’a patron, Moqtada Al-Sadr, had cut down their bullet rations, and today the SGD had produced a black-market US army M60 and risen to their youthful promise. All this defense had forced the JAM into Kinza’s street, a hail of smoke and diesel and bullets, AK47s popping. Kinza had brokered the sale of the M60 to the SGD in the first place, provided they fought on 14th Street.

My friend, we have a moral duty in this situation, Kinza said.

The situation was indeed demanding of their attention, moral or otherwise. Two days ago, Kinza and Dagr, purveyors of medicine, gossip, diesel, and specialty ammunition, had inherited the living person of Captain Hamid, formerly of the 8th As Saiqa Special Forces Division, of the Republican Guard. He had been the chief savant of interrogators, vigilant against traitors to the party, known especially for his signature style and a certain personal flair to the work—an artistic flourish to the branding, undoubtedly the star striker on the torture pitch, the number 10 of all 10s, the 23 of all 23s. Now this Mother Teresa of black holes, this living spit of Torquemada, belonged to them.

This inheritance had come to Kinza and Dagr by a circuitous route. Kinza’s cousin twice removed, Daoud, had been a second lieutenant in the All Martyrs of Anbar Army, an offshoot of retired Republican Guard types who had agreed to shelter the notorious Captain Hamid. This brave battalion had lasted for all of two weeks before a combined (but wholly coincidental) US and Shi’a pincer attack had fulfilled their dearest wish of martyrdom. Both wounded, Daoud and the captain had taken refuge with Kinza. The captain had survived, Daoud had not.

Morality is for the Aztecs, Dagr said. We should sell Hamid to the Americans. We could probably retire on the reward.

Was he on the deck of cards?

He almost made it, Dagr said. I think he was ranked 56th. There was some talk of putting him in the second round, but I guess he just slipped through the cracks.

Funny, I thought he would have ranked higher, Kinza said. Not the face cards, maybe, but in the deck, at least.

We could just let him go. In Shulla, maybe, Dagr offered quickly. Let nature sort it out.

Kinza made a face. That was not a solution he favored.

We could sell him to the Mahdi Army, Dagr scratched his head tiredly. "Sadr might have put him on his deck."

Sadr has a deck?

I think he made one, Dagr said. But he left out the queens and changed the hearts to little crescents.

I hate dealing with the Mahdi Army. Last time they made me pray all day and then woke me up at night to pray again, Kinza murmured.

You’re a product of your race. Self-loathing defeatist, Dagr scraped back his chair. You hate everyone. You hate the Sunnis for killing Hassan. You hate the Shi’as for breaking up the Ummah. You hate the Americans for being crass. You hate the Palestinians for being beggars. You hate the Saudis for being cowards. And because of this, you piss on rational self interest.

Thank you, professor, Kinza saluted him with an empty glass. Condescending as usual. You still live in a tower. A shitty tower, but a tower nonetheless. Hatred is a physical thing. It comes from the gut. I physically need to kill Hamid.

Because he is a torturer.

Yes.

Then you become a torturer as well, and therefore you deserve a similar death, by virtue of your own logic.

Which is why I am hesitating, Kinza refilled his glass. Next to the bottle was a 38 caliber revolver, police issue, now black-market issue, soon to be Shi’a or Sunni or Coalition issue—so many issues it was impossible to decide. These days, every house in Ghazaliya had a confused gun. Would it fundamentally alter our relationship, professor, if I tortured and killed Hamid?

Dagr smiled sourly. I am a market parasite. I help corrupt soldiers steal medicine from the Thresher, our friendly neighborhood American military base so I can sell it at huge profits to needy people who were once my friends. I have shot at a 14-year-old boy who was probably related to me, just for jumping out of an alley. I have…

Ok, Kinza held up a hand. I am not speaking of you now. I am speaking of the professorial you. Would the man who taught economics at the Abu Bakr Memorial have a problem with what I want to do?

That fool would have shit his pants.

Yes, but the problem is, when normalcy returns, then the pants shitters are all back on top, and I would probably have to answer to all of them for everything I do today to survive. And in that time, my friend, I would hate to have you pointing a great shitty finger at me.

Today, I would help you kill Hamid, Dagr said finally. Tomorrow I would hate myself for it. The next day, I would hate you for it as well.

Then what do you suggest for comrade Hamid? Kinza asked. Seriously, I want to know.

He should have a trial, Dagr said.

A hanging trial or a firing trial? Kinza asked.

A fair trial.

What the hell is that?

I’m not joking, Dagr shrugged. Give him a trial. Round up a few dozen people from the neighborhood and try him.

I like it, a kangaroo court.

"A fair trial."

How do you give a torturer a fair trial? Kinza asked. What possible judge would be predisposed to favor him?

He followed orders didn’t he? Dagr shrugged. Everyone followed orders.

Look, he didn’t shoot a bunch of random Kurds, Kinza said. He killed our own people. Academics, professionals, businessmen. People like you, in fact. What if it was your father he had his cigar into? Wouldn’t you like to be the judge then?

I agree with you, Dagr said wearily. It’s just that in passing judgment, in executing that judgment, you become tainted yourself.

So you’re saying pass it on to someone else?

Precisely, Dagr said. That is why we have professional judges.

Difficult to find an impartial judge at this point.

Unless we find one from the old days, Dagr said.

They’d probably be friends with him, Kinza said. Look, let’s at least interrogate him a little bit.

A bell at the door then, the Ghazaliya bell, they called it, the knock of rifle butts against splintered wood, the three-second grace time before boots and flashlights, lasers and automatic rifle barrels. Better than the Mahdi Army, who didn’t bother to knock, and who had never heard of the three-second rule. Dagr surged toward the front of the house, already sweating, thrusting Kinza back. It was his job to face the American door to doors because he still looked like a professor, soft jawed, harmless, by some chance the exact composite of the innocent Iraqi these farm boys from Minnesota had come to liberate. And Kinza…with his hollow-eyed stare, Kinza would never survive these conversations.

He barely got there in time to save the door. Sweaty, palsied fear, as he jerked his head into the sunlight, facing down two of them, and three more in the Humvee behind. They were like big, idiot children in their heavy armor and helmets, capable of kindness or casual violence as the mood took them, unreadable, random, terrifying.

Door-to-door, random check, sir, a Captain Fowler said.

Good morning, Dagr said. Panic made his voice a croak. Door-to-door searches…they would find Kinza, and then Hamid, and it would be a rifle butt to the mouth, burst teeth, no Guantanamo for them, just hands tied behind the waist and a bullet to the head, right here…

Had some violence down here this morning, Captain Fowler was saying. Understand the Mahdi Army came down this road, had a tussle with the boys from the SGD. Know anything about that, sir?

I was hiding, lying on the floor here, Dagr said. He looked desperately from face to face, sunglasses, helmets, flashlights, all hard edges. Where the hell was Hoffman? Kind, innocent Hoffman, who shared cigarettes and jokes and tipped off Kinza about door-to-door searches…

You sweating, my man, Fowler casually shifted his weight, his foot blocking the door open, his gun angled just so, changing everything.

It’s hot, we have no water, Dagr said. No water, nothing in the tank, no flushes working, no electricity either. One fan, and the bastards shot it today…

Ok, sir, we’re rigging the electricity back. We’ve had reports of this problem, Fowler stared at him for a little while. Sir, who else lives in this house? Are you alone in there?

Alone, Dagr felt his voice give way. My house. I live here. Do you want it? Take it, take it, just shoot me, and take it. No water for three days, toilets blocked up for two months, I have to shit in a bucket, bullet holes in every damn wall.

Calm down, sir, Fowler tapped his gun on the door. We are looking for one man known to be an arms dealer. We believe he has a safehouse somewhere in this grid.

Dagr sagged against the door, the sweat pouring out of him, his mind a panicky Babel of voices, eyes swiveling from helmet to helmet, trying to find some weakness, some glimmer of the folksy charm they used when they weren’t in the killing mood. Hoffman, where are you for God’s sake?

You seem to be looking for someone, partner, Fowler said. Looking for Sergeant Hoffman by any chance?

Hoffman? I don’t know him. Maybe. He gave me a cigarette once I think. Tall and white? Don’t know any Hoffman. There was a nice black man before.

Hoffman ran patrols here, Fowler said. He got busted for fooling around with a very bad man. An arms dealer called Kinza. Don’t happen to know him?

Kinza? Sounds Japanese. I don’t know, I hardly go out, Mahdi Army shooting up the streets every day, I’ve eaten bread and eggs for the last three days, can’t even get out to the store, it’s three blocks down on 14th, not that they have anything there anyway.

Alright, sir.

Please, so rude of me, please come in, Dagr began to step back. I have a nice couch, no TV though, got robbed last week, I could hear them from my bedroom, but I just stayed in my blanket. I could make you a cup of tea, no milk or sugar, I’m afraid, but, well…

Fowler stuck his upper body into the room, swiveling his head around. The flashlight on his helmet cut a tight swathe through the gloom, illuminating the pathetic attempts at normalcy: a faded couch, a table loaded with coffee cups, a radio, a pile of textbooks hugging the floor along one wall. The moment hung on a seesaw, Dagr staring at Fowler’s foot, willing it to inch back, dreading the one step forward that would signal the end.

Alright, sir, Fowler stepped back. You be careful now. Give us a call if this Kinza is spotted anywhere. You can ask for Captain Fowler at the Thresher.

Yes, captain, yes, I will, Dagr said. Absolutely. I hope you catch him. He sounds like a bastard Sadr sympathizer. You’re doing a good job. Long live America!

They left and he sagged against the door, aghast at how weak his legs felt. And then he stumbled back inside, remembering that he had left Kinza and Hamid alone for far too long, Kinza drunk and brooding, a man capable of anything. They were in the bathroom, Hamid fetal in the cracked bathtub, hands and legs bound, a filthy handkerchief choking his mouth, two inches of tepid water sloshing a pink tinge. Kinza had a screwdriver and pliers, and his bottle in the crook of his arm, humming.

Kinza, they’re gone, Dagr said, out of breath.

I think he’s ready to tell me all sorts of things, Kinza said. He removed the gag.

Fuck you, Hamid said. What the hell is wrong with you?

Holding back are you?

Fuck you. You haven’t asked me anything yet.

Right, Kinza laughed. I don’t believe you. You’re lying. He started again with the screwdriver.

Kinza, stop it, Dagr said. "The Americans are looking for you. They know your name."

Hoffman?

Caught, reprimanded, I don’t know, Dagr said. Busted. We have to run, Kinza. They know about the guns.

Hamid started laughing, a whistling sound because he had recently lost a tooth. You two are the stupidest fuckers alive.

No problem, Kinza put away his tools. I’ll shoot him and then we’ll go.

Where, Kinza? Dagr asked.

North, to Shulla, Kinza shrugged. I have a friend. Or maybe head over to Baqouba. Start again.

Idiots, Hamid spat out blood. I know where to go.

Where? Dagr asked.

Shut up, said Kinza.

Take me to Mosul, Hamid said. And I will show you the secret bunker of Tareq Aziz.

Like a sightseeing tour? Dagr asked, momentarily puzzled.

It’s full of gold, you fool! Bullion bars and coins. I am the only living man who knows its location.

How?

I once served on his personal staff. I’m the only survivor. Everyone else died in peculiar accidents. Hamid seemed particularly proud of that.

Do you believe this idiot? Kinza looked at Dagr.

The insectile head of the American soldier haunted him. Who cares? Dagr said. Let’s go to Mosul.

2: BARRIERS

THEY’RE LOOKING FOR YOU, BUDDY. HOFFMAN WAS SMOKING A joint, slumped in the rubble of a destroyed house.

I know, Kinza took it off him. You in trouble?

Verbal reprimand, Hoffman shrugged. All them old boys appreciate how much hash I’ve flowed their way.

Not for long, Kinza threw a small packet to his friend. We’re off. Make it last.

Yo, where you all going?

North. Anbar. Mosul maybe. Who knows? Kinza said. Want to come? There might be a bunker full of gold. We’ll cut you in.

Sure, Hoffman said. Professor, you gonna teach me some more math along the way?

We need some help, Hoffman. Dagr had taught him calculus for the past two weeks, at first as a joke. The Marine looked deceptively stupid, was stupid in all likelihood; yet he had picked up integration unerringly. Get us past the checkpoints into Shulla.

Sure, Hoffman said. Hell, I’d go all the way with you boys, but they’d probably nail me for desertion. Call me when you find that bunker. I’ll fence it for you.

Hoffman, you really think there’s a bunker in the desert waiting for us? Kinza laughed. Who knows, maybe it’s filled with 72 virgins as well. Stranger things have happened. We can’t stay here anymore. That’s for sure.

The Iraqi Army 2nd Cavalry Battalion checkpoint was built into the rubble of no man’s land between north and south Ghazaliya, Shi’a and Sunni, the bewildered Iraqi soldiers trying to keep calm and courteous, desperate to still believe the drumming message that there was one Al Qaeda, one insurgency, one enemy. In truth, they kept panicky fingers tight on their triggers, wary of women and children, knowing they were the eternal target, nobody’s friend, traitors in every book. Dagr and Hoffman stayed to the front, Hoffman doing the talking. After a desultory search, they were through, parting ways with a slap and a casual smile.

They should put Hoffman in charge of Baghdad, Dagr said, as they cleared the searchlights into the relieving darkness of evening. We’d have a lot less tension.

Forget it, Kinza said. They should give him Rumsfeld’s job.

Maybe he’ll be president one day.

He could be the joint president of Texas and Iraq.

Imperialist lapdog, Hamid mumbled.

Hamid was not a happy man these days. His face had puffed up to a misshapen Quasimodo lump, where eyes, nose, and mouth were swimming in irregular proximity to each other. A once vain man, he could no longer bear to look at any reflective surfaces and thus wore dark glasses at all times. He was in constant nagging pain, a condition Kinza was in no hurry to leaven. Too, he had a clearer idea now of the route Kinza planned to take, hopping from bastion to bastion of Shi’a dominance. Not a Saddam sympathizer in sight, his life worth a toothpick in a gunfight in these streets.

In the evening, they walked along a boulevard of garbage and open sewage, traversed by lines of people who looked neither left nor right, hurrying along to their bolt-holes. There were calls for prayer from the mosque nearby, a building wrecked by gunfire and mortar from a desperate battle two weeks ago. They walked in single file, Hamid in the middle, Dagr leading the way because he was Shi’a, and had once lived in the area and people trusted him for some reason.

He recognized a few people but did not hail them as he would have in the old days. It was not certain who was who anymore, which camp, which informant, how many dead in each family, and by whose hand. As night fell, the streets rapidly cleansed themselves of civilians and took on a wholly different breed of walkers. Men with guns circled each block, Insurgents, or civil guards, or JAM militia, or even men who were bewilderingly all three, Iraqi army during the day and everything else at night.

Men with guns lounged in pools of light, unwilling to leave that hazy, pathetic safety, the fear a palpable fog streaming into Dagr’s eyes and nose, making him stagger along like a marathon runner. The night belonged to the Ghazaliya dogs, bald and mad, shrapnel marked, barking through garbage. Their shadows capered against the walls, three men on a solitary path, marked by the hopeless stoop of their shoulders.

We are being watched, Kinza said, as they moved into a wrecked alley. Be prepared, Dagr.

A short surge, and two men came out of the rubble, guns out, faces wrapped in checkered scarves. At the same time, an old Fiat pulled up behind them.

Shi’a, Shi’a! Dagr said, hands raised. Don’t shoot for God’s sake.

Take your hands out of your pockets, the leading gunman said.

Hamid was already on the floor, shielding his face. Kinza stood still, his jacket zipped to his neck, hands jammed into pockets, every line of his body uncompromising.

Hands out, you.

You don’t want me to do that, friend, Kinza said softly.

Get your fucking hands out!

Kinza, for God’s sake, Dagr said, shaking. Just do as he says.

Kinza shrugged, raised his hands. There was a grenade in his fist. Dagr could see the tension on his thumb, as it pushed down on the pin. Iraqi army standard shrapnel grenade, used to clear rooms in house to house fighting. Somewhere on the checkpoint was a very careless soldier.

What the hell? Dagr felt his voice rising sharply.

You wouldn’t. The lead gunman swiveled his pistol from head to head like a metronome, fingers tight and trembling, the gun held lopsided in an amateur grip. Behind him, his partner began to edge back surreptitiously. You wouldn’t.

Come and find out, Kinza said.

Let’s all relax, Dagr tried to soothe the fever out of his voice. Look, what do you want?

We saw you coming past the checkpost, the gunman said, eyes darting wildly from face to face. With the American.

We are just going north, to Shulla, Dagr said. We don’t want this trouble.

Trouble? the gunman laughed. Nobody wants trouble. Trouble comes by itself. Do I want to be like this? We need help. There is no one to help us. You help us, and we’ll take you into Shulla.

Funny way to ask for help, Kinza said. With guns.

Is there any other way?

Kinza, let me handle this, Dagr slowly lowered his arms. What makes you think we can help you? We’re just ordinary men. I am an economics professor at…

You might be normal, the man said. He pointed a stubby finger at Hamid and Kinza. But those two are jackals. It’s them we want. We need beasts to hunt a beast. Plus, you are cozy with Americans.

Listen, let’s talk like reasonable men. What is your name?

My name is Amal. The gunman unwound his scarf to reveal an ugly, grizzled face. There is a man here, called the Lion of Akkad. He is a murderer. We want you to make him go away.

Go away?

The American who helped you cross, Amal said. Have him deal with it.

We cannot do that, Dagr said.

Then have your army friends arrest him, Amal said. Or you three kill him. We don’t care.

I thought the Jaish Al Mahdi patrol these streets.

They have been pulling back, Amal said. And recently they were beaten badly in the south, by the SGD. They’re back in Shulla now.

So, you have guns, Kinza said. Are you cowards?

His brother is in the Mahdi Army, they say, Amal hawked and spat. If he finds out we did anything, they will kill us all, and our families.

And we don’t have families?

You do not look like family men.

The Lion of Akkad? Kinza laughed. What the hell, we’ll do it.

Sit down, Hoffman.

Sir!

Hoffman, we are in a quandary. Captain Fowler’s office at the SS Thresher was a textbook military room, no rings on the desk, no overflowing ashtrays, no sticky joysticks, not a file out of place, a room so alien to the rest of the base that even the air seemed crisper, standing to attention, air that was on the constant verge of saluting.

Sir!

It appears, Hoffman, that the investigation into your misconduct has hit a snag.

Snag, sir!

Yes, a snag, Fowler said. It appears that all of the potential witnesses have disappeared.

Disappeared, sir!

Poof.

Sir!

Hoffman, it is unnecessary to yell at the top of your voice every time I say something, Fowler said.

Sir!

Well, Hoffman, what do you suggest I do with you now?

Permission to suggest, sir!

At ease, soldier, Fowler said. Speak your mind.

Requesting an immediate return to patrol duty, captain! Hoffman said. "The streets are pretty frisky these days. Something evil in the air."

Hoffman, surely you know that you have been accused of over-fraternizing with the locals, Fowler said, and specifically, with known criminals. Returning you to regular duty is exactly what I am determined not to do.

I was gathering intelligence, captain, Hoffman said, offended. Building bridges with the community. All there in our handbook, captain.

Hoffman, we’ve received reports of a certain black-market mastermind brokering heavy weaponry for the local insurgent groups, Fowler said. A man called Kinza. What do you know about him?

A few words here and there, whispered in back alleys, Hoffman said. He’s like a ghost. No one even knows what he looks like. The insurgents think of him as some kind of hero. The JAM find him pretty useful too.

Is he a ranking member of Al Qaeda in Iraq? Is he Sadr’s man in Ghazaliya?

No idea, captain.

Something to investigate further, Fowler said wisely. We need this man instantly, Hoffman.

Captain, he’s a merchant who plays both sides, Hoffman said. Sunnis or Shi’as themselves will kill him sooner or later if we sit tight. Even the atheists might get him.

I have noticed that you understand these A-rab sects, Fowler said. More than the average soldier. Is that a fair statement?

Sir.

I have noticed that you hang around with these A-rabs during off-duty hours. Is that correct?

Yes, sir, gathering vital intelligence, sir.

Hoffman, are you a homosexual?

No, sir!

Fowler frowned. Queer? Gay?

No, sir! Hoffman said. I was married once, sir! She left me for a taxidermist, sir.

Right, Fowler said. So what is it you do with these A-rabs, Hoffman?

We drink tea and smoke, sir! Hoffman said. Good American cigarettes.

Right, Fowler said.

And gather intelligence, too, Hoffman said quickly.

And you can tell the difference between all of them? Fowler asked, These Sunnis and Shiites?

Mostly, captain, Hoffman said. Can I ask what this is about?

We have an immense opportunity here, Hoffman, Fowler said. And despite my misgivings about your character, you appear to be the man for the job.

It is an honor to serve my country! God bless America!

Listen closely, Hoffman. We have intel from our informants in Sadr City, Fowler lowered his voice. It appears that the JAM have been tracking a certain high level member of the A-rab Republican Guard.

High level?

Lunching with Saddam Hussein kind of level, Fowler said. Now the JAM boys had lost this character, going by the name of Col. Hamid, in a skirmish; they have reliable evidence that he was smuggled into south Ghazaliya by the insurgent Arabs a few days ago. Are you following me, soldier?

Yes, sir!

"The name Kinza

Reviews for Escape from Baghdad!

[stige_3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is a perfect script for the Cohen brothers. More quirk than you can shade an idiosyncratic stick at.